


Stars

by Iknowthebattle



Category: Actor RPF, Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF, Harry Styles - Fandom
Genre: Bisexual Male Character, Bisexuality, Los Angeles, M/M, Romantic Fluff, sun and love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-06-17 20:18:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15469224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iknowthebattle/pseuds/Iknowthebattle
Summary: This takes place in the same world as Game, Sober and Regent.Harry X Timmy. Love.





	Stars

 

Cause we’re all made of stars.

You said to them. Oh, yes you did.

-Tori Amos, _Bang._

Timmy was curled up on the wicker love seat on the back deck: feet tucked under him, reading one of Armie’s books, a biography of Leonardo Di Vinci he had picked up at the airport in Italy and only read half of. His page was still dog eared, the top bent down, creased and folded, stuck that way with age now.  Timmy couldn’t wait until he read past that page so he could brag, casually mention little things about ol’ Di Vinci that would impress Armie, make him want to pick up the book again, finish it, give them more common ground to stand on.

Timmy laid his head on the arm of the love seat, a pale green pillow shoved between his head and the wicker.

He heard footsteps, bare feet attempting to slide across the linoleum floor, then the sound of limbs crashing into the counter top, cursing followed by laughter.

Harry appeared, dancing out onto the deck sideways, turning on a heel to look at Tim over the top of his sunglasses. Shania Twain was blasting inside.

“Hey. What are you doin’?”  He was leaning over, wrists facing out, hovering. Timmy’s feet were propped up, hanging off the side of the couch from the ankle down.

 He turned the page with a smirk. “What does it look like I’m doing?” He poked Harry’s stomach with his toe.

“Looks like you’re pretending to read a book from here.”

Harry was bored, restless, wanted to play, his fidgety energy vibrating across the deck, diving under Timmy’s warm skin.

He looked up from Armie’s book; his finger paused on the page to save his place.

“What do you wanna do today?”

Harry looked out at the beach, the ocean, chewed his bottom lip for a moment before speaking.

“Everything?” _Nothing_?”

Timmy smiled, one side of his mouth curving up. He was wearing ray bans, Harry wearing his sunglasses, no shirt, bright yellow, short swimming trunks.

“I thought we checked that first one off the list this morning.”

Harry exhaled a long, slow breath. “You got that right. Still fucking sore from last night too.”

Tim grinned, full, happy. He poked Harry again, this time with his whole foot.

Harry loved LA. He was hard wired as a boy, conditioned to love the sand, sun, the surf. He had spent hours here, in Jamaica, everywhere he would, floating, pushing himself down into crystal clear water, the tide miles above and below his feet, lying back on a surfboard and closing his eyes when the tide stilled, waiting for the rush of being turned over onto his stomach and toppled back into the water only to raise himself up, float to the top and start all over again.

Timmy snapped the book shut; a hand on the front cover, a hand on the back. He brought the top of the book to his lips, right under his nose, smelling for any signs of Armie. It smelled like sun tan lotion and airport, still and he filed those under the Armie category.

“Let’s head down and see what trouble we can get up to,” Harry nodded out towards the ocean and Timmy nodded.

He hopped up, led the way back into the house, Harry smacking him on the ass as he passed, Tim turning around to walk backwards, that comfortable with his surroundings, sure footed, knowing where every step would take him having lived here off and on in the summers the past few years.

“I still don’t understand why we aren’t just at your place,” Tim mused as he tossed his shirt on the kitchen counter, loose, careless in Armie’s space. There was an opened box of animal crackers spilled out on the counter from Ford’s last tromp here, purple feather clip on earrings on the kitchen table that Harper had worn for two months solid.

“Because I don’t live on the fucking beach, I live where no one can find me.” Harry’s words were meant to have a curled, light tone but they veered off into bitterness, like the after effect of too much ice cream when all you want is water to wash away the thirst too much sweet created.

Tim shrugged. “Hiding can be fun too.”

He was flirting and Harry knew it. This was part of their dynamic, the give and take of flattery, honest intimacies.

Harry rapped his knuckles on the counter, rings and bone hitting marble. Marvin Gaye was playing through the house now.

“Anyway, where is Armie again?”

“Filming.” Tim’s answer was short, never sure how much to reveal even though Harry was far from a casual acquaintance for either of them at this point.

“When is he back?”

Tim shrugged. “I think in a couple of weeks?”

Harry smiled. “Your words always get all slurry when you don’t want to talk about something.”

Tim was well aware he had no poker face.

“He’s back on the 27th. But I’m staying until the 5th.”

Harry nodded. “I don’t blame ya.”

Harry was following Tim around now as he collected items for the beach.

“Yeah but I mean, only old people live in Beverly Hills so…that’s why this is so much better.” He jumped back safely into a topic Tim was ready to live in.

Tim snorted. “Old people and _you_. But you are…kinda like a Grandpa in some ways…”

“Heyyy…” Harry was feeling tender and Tim was trying to focus. They were off kilter. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t get enough sleep.” Tim ruffled Harry’s hair, longer now, long enough to put in the smallest of man buns atop his head which he did quickly then, smiling under Tim’s touch, his apology, Tim’s hand still on the base of his skull, rubbing tiny baby curls between his fingers.

Harry quietly helped him gather sunscreen, magazines, bottles of water, some fruit and crackers and towels. They shoved everything in a large Trader Joe’s bag that Harry eventually slung over his shoulder, foregoing flip flops as he took the stairs two at a time down to the beach.

Timmy watched him jog across the warm, white sand, stopping half-way to the shore to drop the bag, and carefully set out two towels side by side, one pink, one blue. Tim watched as he set out two icy water bottles, even splayed the magazines out in a way similar to how Doctors’ Offices and hotels do on the tops of tables. Harry continued to set up to a make-shift picnic, laying out strawberries and blueberries between the towels.

Timmy felt the warm sensation of being cared for rise and spread in-between his ribs, coating his outer limbs and chest with pleasure. Everything Harry did was thoughtful, kind, but sincere, not a put on. Timmy wondered if he just attracted care takers, wondered if he somehow pulled them into his orbit, if it was obvious that sometimes he needed, wanted, to pull the light from their stars.

He headed to the spot where Harry was already lying down, leaning back on his elbows, face towards the sun.

Tim walked over; feet scalding and small across and under the heavy sand. He gently shook off each foot  before settling down on the blue towel, legs folded under him, fingers picking at a thread on the over-washed fabric.

Harry patted the ground beside him.

“Lay down.”

Tim squinted behind dark shades, looked up one side of the beach, then the other.

“What if someone sees?”

Harry followed his gaze, but ignored his worry.

“So? I mean this beach is pretty private though, yeah?” A shrug. “Just relax.”

Tim nodded, easing himself back onto the towel onto his elbows, crossing one foot over the other.

He looked over at Harry, who was smiling, sand on his tan knees, his feet pale compared to the rest of him.  

“What?” Tim was playful, flirting, bumping shoulders.

Harry shook his head. “Just you.”

Tim sniffed. “What about me?”

But Harry didn’t answer. Tim looked at him, the long back, an even longer torso, tattoos scattered here and there, a ship, a heart, words and images that Timmy had run his mouth over more than once.

“You hair is getting long,” Timmy blurted out without thinking.

He reached up to touch the nape of Harry’s neck where sweaty curls lay dormant, wilder curls framing his forehead, his ears, hair snaking down slowly to the sides of his neck, the curls losing their battle to volume and weight, straightening out at the ends.

“Yeah, I’m growing it out again….”

Harry reached up to touch the back absentmindedly, giving it a tug, wanting to make it grow faster. He was more himself inside the strands, but hadn’t minded the shortness, the inability to hide for a while.

Timmy was still staring at Harry when he flopped over onto his stomach, propped up on his elbows again, facing him.

No one was ever the little spoon, the tiny one, with Timmy, but somehow, sometimes, Harry was.

Sometimes Timmy felt tall, overpowering to Harry, who willingly curved and curled his body around and against him, wanting to be cared for. Timmy learned how to take care of him, not in the way Armie took care of him _(them?)_ but somehow he propped him up, fed him love and roughness in turn, was able to feel and ride his moods like tides, coming in and out, higher and deeper at certain times of day and night, low and even keeled at others.

Harry was smiling now and Timmy smiled in return, open, sloppy and happy.

There had been a brief moment of jealousy, envy he felt when he looked at Harry realizing he also had Armie the same way he had, no, not the same, but circling in their universe, touching down on a hidden runway, no strangers had been welcomed on their planet of two, all passports denied.

But Harry had been a surprise long term guest, and here he was, splayed out in Armie’s sun, on Armie’s sand, grinning around the mouth of a bottle of water, heady and buzzed from that morning’s pitcher of mimosas, more champagne than juice.

“Hey.” He touched Timmy now, hand on his stomach; tan fingers on white skin, Harry sun-kissed from hours out in the LA sun and surf, weeks in Italy wine drunk and light dazzled.

“You need sunscreen.” His voice was warm, paternal almost, but gentle.

Timmy nodded, wordless, sitting up, scooting to the edge of the towel, his back to Harry now.

Harry sat up on his knees behind him, the top popping off a cap, a slight squeeze, and white smears running up and down his back, his neck; the dimples above his ass.

Timmy closed his eyes, coolness on his hot skin, Harry’s hands soft and rough, flesh and rings running over his spine, over shoulder muscles.

“I like the clink clank noise your rings make…” Timmy said, words unspooling from his mouth, eyes closed, leaning back into what felt more like a massage than a coating of protection.

He felt, he heard Harry smile behind him, hands reaching up and over, dipping into his collarbone, rubbing the tightness there.

“Yeah? Maybe you should take a nap.”

Timmy nodded, mumbled “Maybe so…” and leaned back fully into Harry who caught him, laying him down gently.

He hovered above, hair falling every which way into his face, sticking up, blocking the sun.

“Sleeping beauty…” or something like that came out of Harry’s mouth but Timmy didn’t hear the rest, or care what it was about, he was being held, touched in a way that made him recoil into the softest places inside himself.

His eyes fluttered open, closed, open again as Harry let go, rubbing the front of his shoulders, planting a kiss on his cheek, a longer kiss on his lips, a barely there hand on the front of his trunks.

But now Timmy was awake, sitting up half-way to watch Harry run off, sand kicking up behind him towards the shoreline. He looked back, knowing Timmy would want to tag along, calling out something that was buried, gargled under the tide, the easy dream he was in and he couldn’t hear at all, but he understood.

He stood on shaky, thin legs and ran after the sound, after the other boy on the beach, a spot of yellow and tangled hair, refusing to feel lonely, refusing to be left out while the getting was good, he was going after it.

This time he did not have to create a persona, develop an ultra-thick coating, bullet proof skin to be welcomed into the fold. He did not have to wear a cap sideways, roll up one pants leg, and shimmy his way across a high school, art bloodied stage to get attention, to be noticed.

No, Harry, Armie, all the people who mattered cast their eyes to him and lingered there for as long as he wanted, granting him reprieve when he demanded, pulling him close when he said so.

Timmy kicked up sand behind him, catching up to Harry, grabbing him round the waist to fall sideways together into the surf, black and brown curls flattered by the force of the waves, lithe boy and grown men bodies floating, gasping back up to the top for air.

Timmy dove on top of Harry, forcing him down again, hands on shoulders that never seemed to burn, and he felt long limbs kick towards his body, arms and hands grasping for his waist under water, holding him against the current, neither going down without a fight. Neither was burning out, they were both a central source of light beaming and boasting across the sea, beckoning the dark side of the moon, making Venus and Mars brighter with every push and pull.

**Author's Note:**

> Iknowthebattle on Tumblr for all things Harry/Timmy/Armie and maybe some moodiness. xx


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